The tiny lamp on my nightstand
with its brushed aluminum base
and yellowed shade covered in dust
spreads light all over my bedroom.

It lends a glow to each wall
spills lumens on the carpeted floor
and makes shadows evaporate
from the corners of the ceiling.

Tucked away on a shelf below
rests a draft of my dad’s last words
read aloud at his memorial
by a dear family friend.

I received a copy of them
in the mail on a rainy day
which smudged a bit of the text
as though it had been written in ash.

When I switch on my bedside lamp
I like to think it draws power
from those words, letting its bulb shine
even if the cord were unplugged.